


Seven Days

by goldenwatcher



Series: What Happens Next [1]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: M/M, Molestation, No actual sex between the main pairing, Original Character(s), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Violence, Werewolf, lycanthropy, mentions of OC suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-20 12:56:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16137710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenwatcher/pseuds/goldenwatcher
Summary: Brother Diarmuid is about to pay for the death of Raymond de Merville with his life, but the mute reappears.  How is he still alive, and what do they do now?





	1. Chapter 1

Diarmuid blinked, the salt spray of the water stinging his eyes as he tried to decide what to do.  Now that the relic was gone, there was no further point in continuing to Waterford. There was also no place for him at the monastery, even if he could get there.  He had failed. In fact, he had purposefully tried to throw the relic into the inlet, to lose it in the watery depths. He had even killed a man to accomplish this, another monk.  He did not regret those actions, but he also could not adequately explain them. How could he look the Abba in the eye and tell him that he could no longer stand the brutality done in the name of God?

 

He looked back to the shore.  The soldiers were leaving, the dead littering the beach.  Perhaps he should go back and offer Cathal and the mute the burials that Ciarán and Rua had been denied.

 

Again the captain asked him where he wanted to go, quiet and patient, strangely so far for the man.  Perhaps he knew that Diarmuid was so utterly alone, that he had nowhere to go.

 

“Back to the shore, I suppose,” the young man finally replied, voice soft and insecure.  The captain seemed doubtful, but he obeyed and navigated the craft as close as he dared. Diarmuid had to jump out and wade the rest of the way, dragging with him Brother Cathal’s body.  He laid the slain monk gently on the shore then walked over to the body of the mute. The man was on his stomach, still upon the damp sand of the shore. Diarmuid had to struggle to maneuver him onto his back, horrified how deep the shaft of the wicked arrow was buried in his belly.  He felt along the mute’s neck, praying under his breath, although hope was a fragile thread just then. To his shock, he found a pulse.

 

“Thank you, God,” he murmured, his hand starting to shake.  The reality of all that he needed to do swam over him, almost overwhelming, but he forced down his panic.  He needed to get the arrow out. He looked up and started, falling back onto his haunches. The two remaining soldiers and the archer had circled back and were watching him with drawn weapons. Frustration and fear surged over Diarmuid and he considered begging for the mute’s life, unashamed to humble himself.  He knew his words would be in vain. The soldiers were loyal to de Merville and would have no mercy for their master’s killer.

 

When they stepped forward, swords at the ready, Diarmuid tried to scramble back.  One put a sword to his throat while the other grabbed him roughly, pulling him to his feet.  He swallowed, trying to summon courage for his final moments, but the ache of failure gnawed at his guts.  However, the last strike never came. One soldier bound his wrists with coarse rope. The other two went to the body of Raymond de Merville and carefully placed him on a wrap of cloth.  Diarmuid realized they must be taking them both back to the Baron. He doubted it was an improvement of his situation, but it meant he wouldn't be able to help the mute; he couldn’t even help himself.  His friend was going to die on that beach alone and there was nothing he could do. He was pulled over to one of the two horses, the soldiers manhandling him with the intent of putting him on its back. He had suffered for too long under the cruel whims of the de Mervilles and found that he could not stomach abandoning the mute without protest.  He tried to resist, but at the first sign of struggle, the archer whipped the bow across his stomach. Agony blossomed in the weapon’s wake, making the monk gasp desperately for air. As he fought to breathe, they maneuvered him onto the beast’s back and tied his wrist to the pommel. Before him, the body of de Merville was carefully secured. One soldier mounted the second horse, the other taking the lead of the beast he rode, then they moved forward.  Diarmuid struggled briefly against his binds, the movement of the horse making it painful to breathe around the damage to his torso. The rope stayed firm and the horse and soldiers ignored him. He lost sense of time and direction as the pain licked at his senses, making him almost delirious. The smell of blood and sea water filled his nostrils and slid over his tongue, nausea clawing at his throat.

 

Diarmuid did not realize at first when the horse finally stopped.  His head had sagged, his eyes closed as he struggled to keep his stomach and breathe through his agony.  He vaguely heard shouting, movement stirring around him. The bundle before him was removed as he slowly lifted his head, blinking in the darkness.  Night had fallen as they traveled, and their location was illuminated by torches and campfires that made cold sweat immediately slick his skin. He was carelessly pulled off of the horse and dropped to the ground at the feet of the soldiers.  The rough handling and the pain it caused made him retch, his torso protesting in a rush of agony. He struggled to breathe as the body of Raymond de Merville was carefully placed on the ground before him and unwrapped. He glanced up, seeing the Baron on the other side of the corpse, the archer speaking into his ear in low tones, presumably explaining the events.  The Baron was dreadfully pale, even in the flush of the firelight, his eyes darting between Diarmuid and the body of his son as he listened. Finally, the Baron’s mouth thinned, and the soldiers grabbed Diarmuid by his arms and forced him to stand, pulling a whimper of pain from him. The Baron spoke in French, then one of the men translated.

 

“Tell me what happened.”

 

Diarmuid hesitated, immediately seeing the trap.  He couldn’t speak the Norman language, and he’d never heard the Baron speak English.  If the Baron and he could not understand each other, then the soldiers could skew his words and neither would know.  He swallowed, helpless to do anything but obey.

 

“We were attacked at the Hollows,” he said in English.  “They killed all but us, stealing the Relic. When we followed their tracks, we found the Lord de Merville had plotted to steal it for his king.”

 

The Baron’s eyes flickered between the monk and his soldiers as the last was translated.  It was then that Diarmuid recalled the Baron could understand English, even if he did not speak it.  He swiftly explain what had happened, as honest and straightforward as he could.

 

The Baron stared at him, eyes dark.  “ _ Et Frère Geraldus _ ?”

 

Diarmuid hesitated.  He could see the archer as the man smirked at him from behind the Baron.  He had killed the Cistercian and there was nothing he could say to make that truth palatable.  It was in that moment that he realized it didn’t matter if the Baron believed him. Vengeance for the death of his son needed to be met, and Diarmuid was the only survivor.

 

“He drowned trying to protect the relic,” he answered softly.

 

The Baron’s stare hardened, then he snarled at his men.  A wicked-looking dagger was pulled. Diarmuid braced himself, but his scapular was grabbed and sliced from him.  Defrocked, he was dragged through the camp to a pole where his arms were hoisted above him. The Baron was speaking to his men, the group sneering at the frightened youth.  At his master’s gesture, one of the soldiers stepped forward, looking Diarmuid over, then punched him hard in the stomach. A strangled whine ripped from his throat as agony exploded through him again.  His lungs protested as he fought to breathe, and he could do nothing but struggle to take in air and stay conscious. The back of his tongue was coppery with the taste of his own blood. By the time he could take in a proper breath, the crowd had mostly dispersed, some men glaring at him dangerously.

 

So he was to await his death.  He let his head fall back against the pole as he tried not to cry at his helplessness.  It would do him no good, and he would not dishonor the memory of his fallen brothers by snivelling at his fate.


	2. Chapter 2

The mood in the camp was black, the men drinking and grumbling.  Some came forward from time to time to spit on him. Others grew brave as drink was consumed and hit him.  Along the time most started to make their way to the tents, another man wandered forward, smirking a bit drunkenly.

 

“So, you were a monk?”

 

Were?  Perhaps that was why the scapular was removed, the Baron de Merville believing him no longer worthy of it.  “I am a novice,” he replied softly, his voice hoarse from his struggled breathing.

 

“How long have you been at the monastery then?”

 

Diarmuid hesitated.  The truth was that he didn’t really know.  “Ten summers. Maybe twelve.”

 

The man’s smirk deepened into a sickening grin.  “So long you do not know. So young then.” He gestured around them.  “Do know what is happening, little boy?”

 

“The Baron de Merville is going to execute me for the death of his son.”

 

“Maybe.”  Seeing Diarmuid’s confusion, he sneered.  “He does have some options, you know.”

 

Diarmuid had no idea what other options there could be, and the soldier seemed to be enjoying his lack of understanding.  The monk decided not to reply, for what was there to say?

 

“You could be,” the soldier continued.  “Tortured and executed for the pleasure of all.  You might also be sent to Rome. Our Baron suspects his Holiness might find it valuable to know what happened to the relic he sought, and to the Cistercian.  Of course, they will also torture and execute you. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to watch, but they will be far more creative and patient than us.”

 

That thought had not occurred to Diarmuid.  He doubted the Pope would listen to a lowly novice over a baron and the idea of dying in agony in a foreign land made him feel small and ill.

 

“Then again…”  Here, the soldier stepped close, taking Diarmuid's chin in a firm hand.  He forced the monk’s head to an awkward angle, arching his neck and turning him for study.  “You are such a young thing. It might be a shame to kill you.” At Diarmuid’s blank expression, he chuckled darkly.  “A young, defrocked monk, his first time away from the monastery in his life. There are people who would pay for that.”

 

Pay?  Diarmuid was still confused until he recalled mentions of slavery by pilgrims and in his lessons.

 

“Slavery has been banished,” he said, confident he was right.  Then again, who knew what things the Normans would do?

 

“Has it?” the soldier said, grinning wickedly.  “So fresh from the monastery and still yet you know?  What the king doesn’t know won’t hurt us, and besides, the amount of gold you would fetch might be worth the trouble.  Especially for a chance to break that vow of chastity.”

 

A hand groped between his legs.  Diarmuid jerked back like he had been burned, shocked, and kicked out at the soldier.  The man dodged easily, the camp erupting into cruel laughter.

 

“No point now in being shy, little one,” the soldier said, turning away.  “Very soon now, it will no longer matter.” His companions hailed him as he returned, clapping him on the back.

 

Diarmuid tried to calm his breathing, trembling against the pole.  He couldn’t quite comprehend what the soldier insinuated, whether through ignorance or his mind protecting him, but he knew he would rather die.  He didn’t believe the threat, but a small, painfully young part of him was afraid it might be true. He laid his head back against the pole, trying to forcefully slow his panic.  It would do him no good, and the rushed breathing made his chest and stomach burn. Even if it was true, he could hardly be so valuable the Baron would take the trouble to sell him.  No amount of gold could account for the life of another so he didn't believe the older man would find solace that way. However, gold did funny things to men and the soldier implied that Diarmuid would be worth a lot.

 

The night deepened, his muscles stiffening in the growing cold.  Soldiers continued to drift by and taunt him with a strike or a slap, but another approached and grabbed him by his hair.  Before he could react, the man set sharp teeth into his neck. Diarmuid jerked in pain, his panic soaring again, and the soldier danced away before he could lash out.  Once they discovered how strongly he reacted to being molested, the dwindling interest surged. They took great pleasure in tormenting him and grabbed him or shoved things against him in inappropriate ways.  They snarled at him in French, or in English words he didn’t know. Once man grabbed a cloth that smelled disgustingly of sweat and worse things, then bound it over Diarmuid’s eyes, setting his breathing beyond his ability to control.  He could no longer tell when they came close, and each contact brought sharp pain as he tried to move away. Fortunately, the hour was late and the taunts again thinned until just the Watch was awake, moving around the perimeter of the camp.  It was only then that Diarmuid, unsure if he was alone or not, allowed himself the luxury of silent tears. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, every intake sending arrows of pain through him.

 

He had to prepare himself.  The pain he felt, the taste of his own blood, he knew it would be nothing compared to what his future held.  He laid his head back against the pole, the words of his prayer whispered effortlessly, sliding off his tongue with reassuring familiarity.  He prayed for guidance, for strength in his upcoming trials, and for those that he had lost.

 

A hand slid over his mouth from behind, silencing his words.  Diarmuid gasped, then whimpered at the stab of pain the sudden movement caused.  The hand held him a moment, then he felt the tug of his binds. His arms were suddenly free, if not his hands.  He was swept up into a pair of strong arms, held tight against a body larger than him. It made his rib protest and he helplessly writhed, hands reaching for the blindfold as if seeing would make it hurt less.  The arms tightened around him, holding him still. He thought to cry out, unsure of this strange development, but perhaps God had answered his prayer. Perhaps this new situation would be an improvement. The choice was taken from him when they suddenly surged forward, his captor moving at a full run.  The arms held him firm so that he was not jostled about, so that the movement was fluid. He could not move in that grasp, could not reach the blindfold over his eyes. He tried turning his head, to get a sense of direction or speed, but something whipped across his cheek. Hot fire burst across his skin and he soon felt the wet slide of blood.  He tipped his head down, shielding it against a broad shoulder. He felt vulnerable, alarmed, and so very tired. He hadn’t slept in days, and the shock and hurt was starting to drown out the persistent drive to survive. He no longer had duty to sustain him, and he was beginning to feel unstable. The unreal feeling drew his senses down into darkness.  His heard started to loll and he tried to gulp down the cool night air. He felt so hot.

 

Quite suddenly, the movement stopped.  Diarmuid was placed gently on his feet, then the figure moved away.

 

The monk stumbled and reached up with his bound hands to rip off the blindfold.  He blinked in the light of the waning moon, struggling to see as he looked around the darkness.  He was in the forest, far from the sight of any fire. He heard no one, the sounds of the sleeping camp replaced by the rustling of the trees.  He could just see the figure of a man outside the edge of the moonlight.

 

“Who are you?” he asked in Irish.  He still felt as if he mind was packed in wool, distant from the world around him and his native tongue made it easier to communicate.

 

The figure hesitated, then slowly moved forward into the dim light.  Diarmuid’s eyes widened to see his friend, the mute. He took a step back and stumbled, falling back against a tree.  The mute hesitated, looking uncertain.

 

“I… I don’t understand,” Diarmuid stammered.  He pushed himself off of the tree. “Are you a demon?  One of the sidhe, here to bewitch me? He was left to die on the beach.”

 

The man reached forward and Diarmuid numbly offered his own hands.  They were unbound, rough fingers tracing carefully over the bloodied and torn skin, then one hand was pulled forward to touch the mute’s stomach.  The skin was raw, flesh puckered and bulging where the arrow penetrated. But it was a wound many days old, not fresh from that morning. The broken nose, the slices and cuts… Diarmuid allowed his fingers to trace up over where his friend’s ribs had been broken by de Merville’s mace, but there was no flinch of pain or sign of discomfort.

 

Diarmuid stepped back, sliding his hands free.  “Is… is this a miracle?” he gasped, having difficulty wrapping his thoughts around the vision before him.  “Is this witchcraft?” He sank against the tree. Was this the answer to his prayers, or the road to his damnation?

 

The mute looked at him helplessly and crouched down to meet Diarmuid’s eyes.  He reached forward slowly, cautiously placing a hand on the younger man’s knee.  As Diarmuid met his dark eyes, he could see fear, and knew that fear was returned.  But Diarmuid wanted so desperately for his friend to be alive.

 

Clouds passed over the moon, darkening his vision until he almost could no longer see the mute.  He shifted to his knees, reaching out and contacted the other man’s shoulder. The clouds passed and the silver light of the moon once again illuminated the mute.  He knew that face, those haunted eyes. Something wild lurked there, always had, but Diarmuid had always been soothed by it. His hand slid up to cup the other man’s cheek.  He leaned forward to press his forehead to the mute’s, but pain shot through him. His cry was strangled as he sank forward into a heap. He gritted his teeth as something seemed to grind within his chest.  A hand covered his mouth just in time to catch his wail of pain. He sobbed, but it only made things worse. He tried to calm his breathing, his throat raw and copper still lingering on his tongue.

 

Arms wrapped around him and he was carried to a nearby cave, sheltered by a growth of young trees.  He was helped to sit, then the mute went about setting a fire. As the glow of the embers grew, Diarmuid could make out the little quirks and features of the man before him that he knew so well.  There could be no doubt this was his friend, though how he survived and healed so quickly was beyond his understanding. Whether by God’s work or the Devil’s, Diarmuid found himself grateful.

 

He took the opportunity to look around the small cave.  In truth, the space was not so much a cave as a natural indention beneath rock.  There was a pail of fresh water, some small game and gathered mushrooms, then cloth and herbs for bandaging piled next to the small circle of campfire.  There was room for little else. It seemed the mute had been prepared for Diarmuid to be injured. The man set a cup with some herbs and water by the fire to warm, then moved back to Diarmuid, urging him to stand.  Then he gestured to the robe.

 

Diarmuid looked at him blankly, mind swimming with exhaustion.  “I don’t understand.”

 

The mute plucked at the robe.  When Diarmuid merely continued to stare, he slowly grasped the rough wool and began to pull it up.

 

Diarmuid caught his hands as a fragile whine crawled out of his throat.  He was reminded of the panic from earlier as the soldiers tormented him. He didn’t… he couldn’t… but he looked up, blinking at the mute, and was reminded he was safe.  The hands released the robe and gently cupped his face, their foreheads meeting. The smell was familiar, safe, and he knew it was different. He would not be harmed. The mute again touched his robe, then slowly pulled at it.  Diarmuid allowed it to be stripped from him, torn between his intense discomfort and shame at being nude before the mute, and his unquestioning trust.

 

The older man stepped back and glanced down at him, then reached to run fingers tenderly over his skin.  Diarmuid was prepared to flinch away from the contact but hissed as his side was probed just above his waist.  He looked down to see an ugly bruise decorating most of his stomach and torso, but far darker where the fingers lay.

 

“I think I broke a rib,” he murmured, then looked up at the man.  The mute nodded then grabbed the cloth wraps to wind around him. It hurt and made breathing even more difficult, but it prevented the deep inhalations that set his nerves on fire.  When he was done, he helped Diarmuid back into the robe then laid him down on the remaining cloth. Retrieving the cup, he offered it to the young monk and gestured for him to drink.

 

Diarmuid obeyed without question.  It was not long before the herbs worked their magic and the pain faded under the thick blanket of the drug.  He watched the mute with heavy eyes as his friend set to skinning a rabbit.

 

“Blessed by the Lord, our God,” Diarmuid murmured thickly.  “I give thanks that he has brought you back to me. If my life was not already his, I would pledge it for this miracle.”

 

The mute hesitated then glanced over at him.  There was deep sadness in his eyes, but then he reach over and tenderly slid his hand over Diarmuid’s eyes, bidding them to close.  Lulled, the young man slid into a deep, drugged sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_ He was floating in water, the relic held within his hands.  Around him were the bodies of his brothers, expressions frozen in their final gasps for air.  The Cistercian floated like a ghost, hatred and disgust twisting his face into a demonic mask as he stared blankly in death at Diarmuid.  The water did not harm him, holding him in its gentle embrace as he held the rock of St. Matthias. Something drew his attention to behind and he calmly turned to see the mute swimming toward him.  He reached out, offering the relic to the man. Within its holy light, he could see the once dark eyes of his friend were unnaturally golden yellow. The man snarled, revealing sharp teeth and vicious fangs. _

 

Diarmuid thrashed awake, struggling into awareness even as he fought to breathe.  His chest was tight and he couldn’t get enough air. He clawed at his robe, mouth gaped and eyes rolling wildly.  Then hands caught his, held him and touched his forehead. His eyes darted up and met with the mute’s. The man took a careful breath, then slowly let it out, and another.  Diarmuid quickly caught on and tried to breathe in time with him. It soothed his racing heart and eased the terror of his dream. As he caught his breath, he could feel the sting of hot tears in the cut on his cheek.

 

“They were all there,” he gasped out.  He took another breath, trying to be calm.  “All of them, drowned in the sea, but the water did not harm me.  Why not me?”

 

The mute looked conflicted.  He soothingly brushed back Diarmuid’s hair.

 

“Brother Geraldus said there was evil within me.  Do you think he could have been right?”

 

A quick shake of the head was his answer.

 

“You were there,” Diarmuid said as he grasped the mute’s tunic.  “You were not drowned like the others. In the light of the relic, I saw you as something fey, monstrous.  Why would it show me that?”

 

The mute stilled, freezing under the youth’s desperate regard.  He looked away.

 

An inhuman sound crawled from Diarmuid’s throat.  “No,” he said. “Fighting in the Crusades… that was God’s will.  And even if it wasn’t, if such terrible war is the Devil’s work, you have done more than enough to find absolution in the eyes of the Lord.”

 

The other man grasped Diarmuid’s hands, gently prying him away.

 

“You don’t believe me?” he asked.  He needed to be believed, needed it to be true.  “What horrors could you possibly have done that you have not yet atoned for?”

 

The mute stared into the fire for a long time, still and silent.  Diarmuid finally turned away, haunted by his dream and still so shocked by the events of the past few days.  The peaceful monastery seemed like a lifetime ago.

 

“I am damned.”

 

Diarmuid’s head snapped up.  The voice was raspy with disuse and unfamiliar to him, but the mute was the only one there.

 

The man glanced at him.  “On Crusade. There was… there were things that no atonement can wash away.”

 

“That’s not true,” Diarmuid said immediately.  “There is salvation for all of God’s creatures.”

 

“And if I am not?”  He looked back to the fire.  “You received the vision. You know what I am.”

 

“No,” he replied stubbornly, shaking his head.  “I know nothing of the sort.”

 

“There was a raid on a house,” the man said, watching the flames as they consumed the wood.  “There had been many brutal attacks on our soldiers and the source was tracked to it. Several men died simply trying to reach the basement, but once we were there…” He trailed off.

 

Diarmuid had no words.  Terror at the possibilities gripped him.  He extended one trembling hand and laid it on the mute’s shoulder.

 

The man glanced at the hand, but would not look directly at Diarmuid.  “It slaughtered a dozen men in moments, wounding a few others. The creature was killed, but the damage done.”  He turned back to the fire. “We were told it was a gift from God, warriors meant to smite his enemies. What we did… I could not find God’s hand within it.  When it was over, I left, seeking why or my end.” He looked then at the younger man. “Instead, you found me.”

 

Diarmuid was unsure how many more of these horrible surprises he could take.  He swallowed down his fear and refused to give up on his friend. “What kind of creature?”

 

He said something in French but at Diarmuid’s blank look, he gestured a bit helplessly.  “The wolf.”

 

Diarmuid had heard stories of men cursed with the form of a wolf.  He had been told they were damned creatures, far from the sight of God.  To think such a creature could have been living in the monastery, as his friend… he couldn’t believe it.  And yet, the man finally spoke, breaking his vow of silence to reveal this secret. He could demand proof, but could he handle it?

 

He needed air.  He needed to think.

 

Diarmuid moved back.  “I just… I need some air.”  He was surprised to find his voice as thin as it was.  The mute looked at him grimly, as if this was the reaction he’d expected, terror and rejection.  Diarmuid wanted to reassure him, but his throat felt tight, as if the Cistercian’s hand was still hard around it.  He stepped out of the cave, trying to take in the clear air to find that his hands were trembling.

 

There was hesitant movement behind him.  “Novice?” the mute asked softly. Diarmuid turned his head to see the man standing there, one hand extended as if to catch him but afraid to touch.

 

“I’ll be okay,” Diarmuid replied, fingers fussing anxiously as his robes.  “I just haven’t slept enough and there is so much to make sense of.”

 

“Let me lead you to safety,” the mute said softly, insistently.  “Let me take you somewhere safe, then you can be free of me.”

 

Diarmuid’s head whipped around to stare.  “What? Why?”

 

The mute blinked at him.  “Why see you to safety?”

 

“Why would you leave?”  He realized quickly how desperate and young he sounded and stammered a correction.  “I mean, you don’t have to but it is your choice.”

 

“After what I just told you?” was the incredulous response.  “How--” The mute broke off, head turning and alert as he stared into the trees.

 

Diarmuid knew well enough how to read his friend to understand that something had caught his attention so he did not question, but he couldn’t hear anything in the rustling forest.  Then the mute grabbed him and pulled him down to the ground. The novice tried to swallow his hiss of pain as his rib was jostled. Then he heard it: the hush of careful footsteps as someone moved through the trees.

 

“It ends here,” a voice said softly, perplexed.

 

“What do you mean, ends?”

 

Diarmuid froze, his heart starting to pound.  He knew that voice. It was the soldier who so plainly had stated his options before groping him.

 

“It stops.  There is no further trail.  There are signs of local animals: rabbits, a fox here, a wolf there, but no sign of any people.”

 

“They can’t just disappear.”

 

“I don’t know.”  The tracker sounded hesitant.  “A boy escaping Lord Raymond? What monk can do that, let alone one not yet a man?  They have tales of changelings here, fey creatures that pretend to be human.”

 

“It’s just a boy,” the other soldier said in disgust.  “Perhaps a pretty one, but a boy nonetheless.”

 

“Well, this boy and whatever creature he summoned to save him are gone.”

 

The men were silent for such a long moment that Diarmuid wondered if they had left, but the mute did not let him up.

 

“Get the men,” the soldier finally snapped.  “Search the area. He is here somewhere.”

 

The footsteps moved away.  The mute held him a moment longer, then released him and moved back into the cave.  He packed up swiftly, then gestured Diarmuid West. He was tired of running, but what option did they really have?  With one hand on his chest, feeling the bandages underneath, Diarmuid set out, his friend close behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

They moved quickly, although Diarmuid could not run.  Despite the soldier’s theory, he was human and healed like one.  The mute was a reassuring presence at his back, steering him this way or that to avoid the noisiest route.  They had moved for a few hours when he was pulled to a stop and gestured to rest. Some of the rabbit cooked earlier was shredded under the mute’s fingertips and he offered the pieces to Diarmuid.  The monk took them, ravenous. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten. He reminded himself to chew, to give thanks to God, then looked up and nearly choked.

 

“Look,” he breathed.  The mute followed his finger to the symbol carved onto the tree.  “This one is different. We’re in a new clan territory.” He looked at the mute.  “Do you think we’re out of the foreigners’ lands?”

 

The mute studied the symbol speculatively.  He didn’t reply, hadn’t spoken since he heard the soldiers, but he seemed doubtful.  He gave Diarmuid more of the rabbit and some water, then gestured for him to stay before he quietly moved off.

 

Diarmuid tried to watch out for him but quickly lost sight of him in the trees.  He was, of course, not foolish. Even if they escaped the Normans, they were unlikely to be safe.  The clans were equally as dangerous, and Diarmuid no longer remembered which one was his, let alone if they were close.  They released those attachments in the monastery and he had been so young when his kin had left him there. Even if this was his clan, he wasn’t sure they would remember him anymore than he remembered them.

 

The mute reappeared from the trees, crouching down next to Diarmuid.

 

“Now that we are out of immediate danger, where should we go?”  Diarmuid wondered aloud, his voice soft.

 

“We could go back to the monastery,” his companion replied, surprising him by speaking.

 

Diarmuid looked down, sadness and shame washing through him.  He still didn’t regret his actions, only that he had willfully failed his duty.  “I cannot.”

 

The mute frowned slightly.  “Novice,” he started softly, then seemed to change his mind.  He gently took ahold of Diarmuid’s elbow, urging him to stand so they could continue on.

 

They didn’t have a goal or destination in mind, just to escape from the territory of the Grey Foreigners.  If they could put enough clan territory between them and the Normans, they might forever be safe of them. The clans were a different issue.  Until they could decide what to do, they would need to learn how to safely traverse the varying territories. It was easier with Diarmuid in his black monk robes, as the Gaels were a superstitious lot and tended to avoid conflict with holy men.  But Diarmuid was also young and there were others who might suspect him of being a spy like Raymond de Merville had.

 

It was hard to tell time in the dense forest but it was about midday when the clan made their presence known.  The mute paused, reaching a hand toward Diarmuid as he looked around.

 

One man stepped forward first, then others, surrounding them.  Diarmuid could see the tension in his friend’s shoulders. “Easy,” he breathed, glancing around them.  Louder, he said, “We mean you no trouble, friends.”

 

The men looked at them, weapons at the ready and mostly pointed at the mute, although a couple were on Diarmuid.  One man, his spear pointed steadily at the monk, spoke up. “You are no friends of ours.”

 

“We mean you no harm,” Diarmuid insisted.

 

“What you mean and what you’ve done are two different things.”  The man’s eyes flicked to the mute. “Come out from behind your guardian, boy.”

 

The mute stiffened.  Diarmuid put a hand on his arm, keeping him still while the youth circled him to stand in front.  Despite being afraid, he seemed calm with the spear so close to his throat. “We are travellers,” he said steadily, “and we have no intentions of delaying in your lands.”

 

The man looked him over, distaste flickering over his features.  Some of the clans stayed to the old ways, worshipping their false idols and showing nothing but disdain for their Christian brethren.  Diarmuid knew of them but had not met one yet. Still, he thought nothing of such dislike just then, unable to be sure if that was where the spear-bearer’s hatred came from.

 

The man seemed to come to a decision and tossed a rope at Diarmuid’s feet.  “Bind his hands,” he said, gesturing to the mute.

 

Diarmuid would do no such thing.  “That is not necessary--”

 

“We will take you to the chieftain.”  Again, the sour expression darkened his features.  “But he will be bound, for the safety of the clan.”

 

Diarmuid hesitated, but he wasn’t sure they had a choice.  He looked to his companion. The mute also seemed displeased, but he wordlessly held out his wrists to Diarmuid.  Silently, the monk picked up the rope and bound his companion’s hands together. He was unsure the rope would even hold him, not knowing the power of the wolf, but his thoughts shied away from the knowledge of what his friend was, still unable to process it.  He had barely finished when the spear-bearer stepped forward and harshly tied Diarmuid’s wrists together, leaving a long lead with which to pull the boy through the trees.

 

Diarmuid followed placidly, calmed by the mute’s presence behind him and the path leading them farther away from the Normans.  He didn’t know what to expect from this clan, but he saw no reason yet to fear them.

 

They came to a clearing, not unlike the one the Ua Mordha had occupied when they stole the relic.  They were made to stand in the center of the camp while the spear-bearer went to a hut whose opening was covered with a fur.  The man stepped inside and soon returned with another, whom Diarmuid had to assume was the chieftain. He was older but still well in his prime.  Some of the clan glanced between him and the chieftain warily, some with frightening anticipation. The chieftain walked over to them, glancing over Diarmuid before standing before the mute.

 

“Who is your clan?” he asked, looking Diarmuid’s companion square in the eye.

 

Diarmuid knew his friend well enough to sense his tension.  The vow had been broken, but so far the man had not spoken before any but him.  He did not think that would change.

 

“He is a mute,” Diarmuid said calmly when the other man remained silent.  “He does not speak.”

 

The chieftain's cold, slate-grey eyes turned to him, pinning him where he stood.  He waved a hand and the mute was dragged away, sending tension rolling through Diarmuid’s spine.  “So then it is you I shall negotiate with?” he asked, sounding strangely pleased.

 

Diarmuid glanced away, seeing his friend pulled to the edge of the clearing.  He was shoved to his knees and held there, a dagger at his shoulder.

 

“Who is your clan?” the chieftain requested, drawing Diarmuid’s attention back.

 

“I have no clan,” he replied.  “I serve Christ.”

 

“Then you are a foreigner?  You do not sound like one.”

 

“This is my native land and tongue.”

 

“Then who is your clan?”

 

Diarmuid frowned.  “I don’t know,” he finally said.  “And even if I did, we are encouraged to forget such ties.”

 

The chieftain looked him over again, eyes lingering at the robe’s mouth where it gaped, revealing a collarbone.  “You don’t remember? Were you given so young then to this Christ of yours?” Before Diarmuid could reply, the man jerked his head toward the mute.  “And his clan?”

 

“I don’t know.”  It was not a lie, as he did not know if the mute had a clan or not.  He could presume the man was a Norman, like the de Mervilles, but he did not know that for sure.  All that informed this idea was that the man understood French and spoke Irish as if the words were completely foreign to his tongue.

 

“Is he a foreigner?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t seem to know much,” he said, glancing at his men.  They chuckled in amusement. “Why are the Grey Foreigners hunting you?”

 

Ah.  It would figure the border clans would understand the habits of their enemy.  Diarmuid stayed silent, not wanting the clan to know just what a prize they had caught.

 

“That you do know, then.”  The chieftain smirked at the younger man.  “As you might imagine, being on the border of a conqueror’s territory is a bit perilous.  Currying their favor may protect my clan.”

 

“You cannot curry the favor of men like them,” Diarmuid replied.  “They forget their promises as soon as it is convenient.”

 

“Do you speak from experience?”

 

He ignored the question.  “A conqueror will not be satisfied until all is crushed beneath him.  Seeking favor will only delay the inevitable.”

 

“Then perhaps we should kill you first,” the chieftain said thoughtfully.

 

“What benefit is that to you?”

 

“It would stop them from searching our lands for you.  Also, I’m inclined to show mercy on a kinsman.”

 

“Then let us go and we will leave your lands.”

 

“What benefit is that to me?” he asked, throwing the monk’s words back at him.

 

Diarmuid paused, frowning slightly.  The remark left him confused. Did the man not see they had nothing to offer?  “If there is something that you want from us, we will offer it if we can. But as you can see, we have nothing.”

 

Diarmuid did not like the sudden dark pleasure that twisted the man’s lips.  He stepped forward and reached up, tracing the pale collarbone exposed by the monk’s robe.  “You have more to offer than you think, little one.”


	5. Chapter 5

The novice jerked back from the touch, very confused. Panic slid under his skin automatically at the unfamiliar caress and he fought to keep it under control. Obviously, there was an implication in his actions, judging by the annoyed sighs or vicious chuckles of the clan. Before he could gather his thoughts, the chieftain tsked.

“I see you are refusing my compromise. Very well.” He glanced at the men holding the mute. “Kill him.”

“No! Wait!” Diarmuid cried, grabbing the chieftain’s arm. “You didn’t say what you wanted.”

“What only you have to give.” At Diarmuid’s blank look, he smiled. “Shall I show you?” he purred.

Diarmuid swallowed as the man pulled a dagger. It was lifted to his throat and for one panicked moment, he thought his life was over. But then the dagger turned and caught the vee in the neck of his robe. With a sharp tug, it cut down, slicing the garment open down to Diarmuid’s bound wrists. All he could do was gasp before the lead on his binds was pull up and back, forcing his hands over his head. The chieftain grabbed the material of his robe and finished parting it, cutting all the way down and baring Diarmuid before the entire clan.

He wanted to fight, to struggle, but the way the robe lay still left him mostly covered. If he thrashed, that meager protection would be gone. He panted in fear as the chieftain looked him over, hunger in his grey eyes. “Did that make my offer clear, little one?”

Diarmuid stared at him. The soldiers had implied that some people might be willing to pay to touch him, but he still didn’t quite comprehend the point of it. What he knew was that the chieftain wanted his body for some use, and would release them after, or so he said. Diarmuid wasn’t inclined to believe him. He also knew this use would break his vows. He didn't know if he could do that, but did he have a choice?

The chieftain seemed content with allowing him to weigh his options. He reached forward, parting the sliced cloth slightly to expose one nipple, then reached to touch it.

A low, terrifying growl caught everyone’s attention. Diarmuid looked over and started to see the mute free, both guards dead at his feet. The man’s eyes were a fierce, unnatural gold, almost glowing from within as he stared at where the chieftain’s hand was almost touching Diarmuid. Another growl trickled from his throat, his posture hunched and balanced on the balls of his feet, like an animal poised to attack.

The grasp on Diarmuid’s lead released as the clan whispered of demons and sidhe. He lowered his arms, wishing he could grasp the edges of the robe as he took a fumbling step back. He could clearly see the damned thing his friend was, but still felt far safer with it than the clan surrounding him. Slowly the mute stalked forward, his eyes on the chieftain as the man took one careful step back after another. Diarmuid heard the murmurs as the clan called him a witch, a fey creature, a sin of temptation incarnate. It made his insides twist, that they thought him capable of such a summoning, but the desperate need to escape overrode any hesitation.

The mute stepped up behind Diarmuid, eyes never leaving the threat. He swept Diarmuid into his arms, turning him so that he was sheltered and covered, then he turned and raced into the trees. Diarmuid knew to keep his head down this time but watched as the scenery fled by at a speed that was almost nauseating. He put his bound arms around his friend’s neck to hold on, not wanting to think just then.

When The mute finally stopped, the sun was low in the sky and there were no signs of the clan. He looked down at the monk, who was trembling in his arms, although whether that was from the chieftain or the mute’s own actions was hard to say. He gently lowered the younger man to his feet, making sure the robe was as closed as possible, then began to untie the rope binding his wrists.

Diarmuid looked around, trying to take stock of where they were now. The mute had taken them to the bank of a stream, but which territory of how close to another person, he had no idea. The rope fell free and he immediately frasped the edges of the robe, holding it closed. “You haven’t a needle, have you?” he asked.

The mute immediately started to look around to see what he could find. Diarmuid was shivering, although the evening was not as cool as it could have been. He was troubled that the sensation of suffocating was becoming familiar to him. His legs felt weak, the giggling of the stream behind him strangely loud.

There was movement and the mute’s head snapped up. Diarmuid’s legs collapsed under him and he was caught and carefully lowered to the ground. He tried hard to calm his breathing, tired of the dizzying anxiety that kept clawing through his chest. Distantly, he heard a low growl and realized both that it was the mute, and that the man was not the one who held him. The arms under his hands were muscular but slender, the skin soft. Diarmuid started to struggle.

“Hush, beast,” a voice said. “I would not harm a holy man. He is panicking. We need to calm him.”

Long blond hair tickled his face as Diarmuid looked up and suddenly stilled, breathing forgotten. The person holding him was a girl, roughly his age. She was holding him tight against her, one hand stroking his back, but her eyes were focused on the threat of the mute. The panic washed away at the sudden novelty of the creature in front of him. The last female he remembered was his mother, so many years ago.

She finally turned her head to look at him, her eyes the deep blue-grey of the waters back home. “You are calm then, holy man?”

Diarmuid nodded, clasping his robes closed.

She released him rather unceremoniously, dumping him and backing away so that the mute could move forward. From some invisible place in her scant clothes, she produced a bone needle.

“Did Daithi hurt you?”

The mute frowned at her, at the weapons she wore easily about her person, but took the needle then removed his own shirt, offering it to Diarmuid. The younger man glanced up at the girl. She sighed, rolling her eyes, but turned her back so that he could strip.

“Daithi,” he said slowly. “Is he your chieftain?”

She snorted. “Daithi is chieftain, yes, but not of my clan. You have passed into the next territory, holy man.” She glanced back and, seeing he had the far too large tunic on, turned around and plopped onto the floor as the mute began seaming the tear on the robe. “Oh, I would not worry. Mamó will most likely see him in fresh robes.”

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow. His hands were still quivering and he didn’t know what to do with himself around the girl while he waited. He wished she would just leave. “You intend to take us to your grandmother?”

“Do you have somewhere more pressing to be? Wandering aimlessly through the trees, perhaps? Not that I mind watching.” She openly admired his bare legs.

Diarmuid blushed hotly while the mute gave her a disapproving glare. “What?” she asked innocently.

I think I’d rather take my chances with Daithi,” Diarmuid muttered.

She turned back to him, stormy eyes suddenly serious. “Your education seems lacking, Monk.” The proper term seemed too heavy from her mouth, as if it bore a weight not many could carry. “If that is truly what you think, than your monastery has left you more defenseless than a babe.”

He frowned. He wanted to argue, to prove he wasn’t defenseless, nor after everything, but he knew her point had some truth to it.

She continued without his input. “I’m a little surprised, if I’m honest. How can one so innocent travel with a hound of the sidhe?”

The mute’s busy hands stilled, but he didn’t look up. “What do you mean?” Diarmuid asked cautiously.

She snorted. “Mamó is our herbalist and keeper of the old ways. She says I have the sight as well and has taught me how to use it. Now I suggest you finished with the robe. Darkness will fall soon and Mamó will want to see you in full light.”


	6. Chapter 6

The mute glanced back at Diarmuid, then bent to his work, sewing quickly. It left the youths to watch each other. Diarmuid could feel her eyes on his legs and on his shoulder where the tunic gaped and bared his skin. He watched her move cautiously, noting the leather skirt that barely covered her hips and upper thighs, and the wrap around her chest. A sling hung from one side of her waist and a dagger from the other, a small pack strung together across her chest. Diarmuid stood for fear of not sitting gracefully and her spying more of him than he’d like, but she didn’t seem to care what they saw of her. To be fair, she also seemed to know how not to flash them in her scant clothing.

Finally, the mute stood and offered the repaired robe back to Diarmuid. The girl also rose and turned her back before being asked. Once they were settled, she nodded. “Come with me. Mamó will want to speak with you.” Without waiting for a reply, she started into the trees.

The two men looked at each other, but they had little choice and followed after her.

They walked silently for a long time, the shadows lengthening as they followed the confidant young woman. Suddenly, the mute grabbed Diarmuid’s arm, holding him back. The reason why appeared from out of the trees, a spear held in a firm grip. For one wild moment, Diarmuid thought she had led them back to the chieftain who had stripped him, but this guard was younger, a long, thin scar over his left eye.

“Muirne,” he scowled, looking first at the two men, then at the girl. “Why have you brought these strangers here?”

“Open your eyes and see what is before you,” she replied coldly. “They have escaped Daithi’s camp. Radha will want to speak to them.”

The man peered through the dimming light at Diarmuid, his expression unreadable. “You seem sure,” he said doubtfully.

“Oh, I am.” She pushed by the guard, gesturing for Diarmuid and the mute to follow. They quickly reached a large camp, already warm with the glow of fires. Unlike the previous camps they had been in, women stood with weapons and by the fires, sprinkled around with the men. There were also children running through the camp, laughing and giggling as they played. Diarmuid couldn’t remember ever having seen a child and watched with delight. He had to remind himself to keep moving, the adults watching with far too much wariness for him to observe for long.

They were lead through the camp to a larger building with a fire set before it, toward the boundary of the clearing. A woman with white hair sat on a log before the fire but stood as they approached. The girl, Muirne, walked up to her. They cupped each others’ cheeks and touched their foreheads together in fond greeting.

“Mamó,” Muirne said. “I have brought two strangers to you, a holy man and his guardian. I found them accosted and running from Daithi’s camp.”

The older woman looked at them, her eyes piercing and lovely. Diarmuid had to fight the urge to squirm under her gaze. “It has been some time since a Christian monk has made his way to us,” she said, stepping forward to him. “I am Radha, herbalist and medicine woman of our clan. We keep to the old ways.”

“You do not have faith in God?” Diarmuid asked.

Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she smiled. “Rather, he is busy. Why not ask the spirits to help as they have done so since the time of our ancestors?” Her hand lifted to carefully feel the seam at the neck of his robe. “What are you called, dove?”

“Brother Diarmuid. This is my companion. He does not speak.”

She released the robe, barely glancing at the mute. “I presume he is not feral, else you would not be here. You must have a good heart, Diarmuid.”

“Why is that?” he asked, confused.

“Because you haven’t the ability to willfully summon such a creature, nor the guile to purposefully charm him. He follows you willingly, and that takes a special soul.” She gently grasped his chin, looking deep into his eyes, then turned his head this way and that. Satisfied, she released him and looked to her granddaughter. “Heat both baths,” she commanded.

“Yes, Mamó,” Muirne replied before moving swiftly off.

Radha stepped back, looking them both over. “You will be bathed and fed, then take much needed rest. In the morning, we will decide how to help you. Clothing you shall be easy,” she said, gesturing to the mute. Then her eyes fell to Diarmuid. “We will make you a fresh robe. In the meantime, I have another you may wear. It is not black, but it will do for now, unless you object.”

Diarmuid was shocked. They had not been shown kindness since leaving the monastery. How strange it was to have finally found some. He hated that wasn’t sure he could trust it. “I’m sure it will be fine. Thank you.”

Another girl stepped forward, her hair long and dark as a raven’s wing. “The baths are ready, Radha.”

She nodded and gestured to the girl. “If you would follow Branna. I will be there shortly.”

Branna smiled at them prettily then led them away to a river. On the shore was what appeared to be a large clay basin with a small fire underneath. Nearby was another building, a cloth over the door. Muirne and a no-nonsense redhead were bustling about. Branna turned around and looked up a Diarmuid through a fan of dark lashes.

“Which of us to you prefer to bathe you?” she asked coquettishly.

Diarmuid blinked, taking a reflexive step back. Then he flushed. “What?”

“The holy man is in the safety room, Branna,” Muirne snapped, frowning.

“I’m just giving him options,” Branna replied easily. She turned her flirty smile to the mute.

“Radha didn’t leave him any.” Muirne stepped up to them, her voice softening. “You have been through a terrible ordeal. As part of hospitality and healing, you will be bathed in herbs and water, then freshly clothed. But we understand that this might not be comfortable for you, Holy One, so there is a sheltered bath in that room that Mamó herself will assist you with.”

“We don’t need assistance bathing,” Diarmuid hastily assured her.

Muirne shrugged. “It is our way. Come, Guardian.” She stepped back to where the other two girls waited, one eagerly and one almost clinically.

At least the mute looked as nervous as he felt. The man looked to Diarmuid but the monk shrugged helplessly and walked with trepidation toward the room.


	7. Chapter 7

Inside, he could see another clay basin with a fire under it. Sweet-smelling candles were lit, making his muscles relax. There were no other windows or doors and, once inside the basin, no one would be able to see his nakedness. He swallowed and glanced outside and nearly ran into Radha. She smiled gently at him, sweeping past.

“Just let me put the herbs into the water,” she said, tossing the contents of her bundle in. She stirred with a paddle, then moved back to the door. “Get in, child.” She disappeared beyond the curtain. Farther away, he could hear the delighted laughs of Branna.

Diarmuid slowly removed his shoes and robe, carefully unwinding the binding on his ribs, then climbed into the hot bath. The first sting was almost too much, but then the heat soaked into his limbs, his throbbing side and aching torso, and he nearly purred in pleasure.

A scratch at the curtain was his only warning before Radha stepped back in. He almost choked.

“Radha, I appreciate your hospitality--”

“Dove, you are my granddaughter’s age. I assure you that your chastity is safe with me.” Another loud laugh from outside made her grimace. “I cannot say the same for your companion.”

She stepped up to the edge of the basin, giving him a perfunctory glance. “I will wrap your ribs with a poultice,” she said as she took a cloth and began wiping his body down.

Diarmuid hadn’t been bathed like this since he had taken a fever three winters ago. Brother Ciarán had needed to clean up the sickly sweat, but it hadn’t meant to be as comforting as this bath was. She carefully poured water over his head and scrubbed fingers through his hair, rubbing in such a way that the tension seeped from his body.

“Who were they?” she asked him softly.

He considered asking what she meant, but he knew it would be foolish. His shoulders sagged slightly. He was suddenly exhausted. “Bother Rua, Brother Cathal, and Brother Ciarán; three from my monastery.”

“You loved them,” she said softly, stroking the cloth across his shoulders and down his arms. “But they weren't the only ones, were they?”

Diarmuid shook his head slowly. “Everyone died. So many people, and all for a rock.”

“Has it hurt your faith?”

He shuddered. “Brother Geraldus said that those who did not obey, who did not bow, would be crushed. He thrilled in the suffering of those who would not yield.”

“Is that a problem?” Radha asked.

He looked at her, a little lost. “It is only those who have not professed their holiness that have had the room in their hearts for kindness.”

She nodded slowly. “And your guardian?”

Diarmuid let out a shuddering breath, trembling. Her hand was dipping into the water, stroking over his stomach with the cloth, but it didn’t distress him. He felt safe, his mind distant, locked on the chaos that tumbled within. “I haven’t… I haven't seen… Is it true? Is he damned? He is too good to be completely forsaken by God.”

“Is there anyone you can ask?” Her voice was low and soothing, almost hypnotic.

“No,” he keened. “I’ve lost the relic and my brothers. There is no one left to ask. I…” He looked up at her, his eyes wet, and a great sob hiccuped through him. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. I just… I don’t know what to do.”

Radha gently pulled the boy into her arms, soothing as much as keeping him from drowning as he broke, deep wrenching sobs rattling his slender frame.

All that had haunted him those past days, all the chaos that left him in an unending limbo, poured from him then. He wept for his brothers, for the home he once knew and the life that had been thoughtlessly taken from him. The guilt of watching Brother Geraldus sink beneath the water, of Cathal sagging into the boat, Ciarán writhing in agony in his final moments as his slick guts hung from the wound in his waist, those images haunted the darkness behind his eyes and fed the helplessness he felt. He wanted to help, wanted to go home, wanted to rest finally, and he wasn’t sure he ever could again. Then finally, finding the mute alive, his last remaining connection to his home, and being forced to leave him behind… he didn’t know that he could give the man up. He didn’t think he was strong enough.

He wept like a child into the older woman’s arms. The buoyancy of the water help her to support him as he fell apart before her. Eventually, he found himself out of the bath and curled up on her lap, a blanket wrapped around him to help dry him and keep him warm. He was exhausted and heartsick, the crying having wrung him out until he was nauseated.

Radha held him gently in her arms, hands soothing over him as her cheek rested against the wet mess of his curls.

“Such tremendous responsibility and sadness for one so young,” she murmured into his hair. “I am confident that you have faced the trials of your God and have so far come through with his good grace on your side.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he replied, voice hoarse from weeping.

“Does it ever feel good to be blessed by grace? It is a fire that burns like the sun, but if you look, I think you will see signs of it. Follow your heart, young Diarmuid; it has lead you true so far.”

He didn’t know if that was true or not, but there was something soothing in her faith in him, in her arms and voice. He found himself believing her, and if she believed in him, where did that leave him?

She lifted her head and brushed his hair back from his eyes, tipping his face to hers. She kissed his forehead gently, causing his throat to tighten at the unfamiliar but beautiful sensation. “I know your companion awaits outside, troubled by the sound of your tears. Do you wish to see him?”

He straightened, wincing at the pinch in his side. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and rose before offering the older woman his hand to assist her. Radha took it. “I will get the poultice for your rib and the fresh robe.” She stepped outside, the mute entering a moment later.

Diarmuid didn’t look at him initially, keeping the blanket tight as he glanced around the hut. He heard the mute slowly step forward, then a large, calloused hand gently cupped his jaw. A thumb stroked across his cheekbone, wiping away the tear tracks there.

“I’m alright,” Diarmuid said softly. He was a little ashamed at being caught crying like a child by the other man, but the chaos in his head had dulled, leaving him feeling hollow and almost peaceful. Much had happened; he could be forgiven weakness, couldn’t he? Looking up at the mute, he could see the concern on his face and decided it might be better to elaborate. “So much has happened in the past five days.”

The mute nodded, removing his hand from Diarmuid’s face. He found a fresh cloth and dipped it into the water, wringing it out.

“How… how was your bath?” Diarmuid asked, feeling a bit silly. He should probably resist the curiosity, but he couldn’t imagine being bathed by the three girls. His eyes flicked over the fresh clothes, leather pants that fit the man well and a tunic of finer material than his previous one. It looked soft.

His friend looked away a moment as if he was considering his answer, but then shrugged. A faint blush touched his cheeks but he turned and offered the cloth. As he did so, Radha returned.

“I apologize, dove, that we don’t yet have your preferred color, but we should have something finished tomorrow.“ She set the bundle down and gestured for the mute to leave. Once they were again alone, Radha pulled the blanket free from him and rewrapped his torso with the poultice and bandages. “We’ll be outside when you’re ready.” She followed after the larger man.

Diarmuid cautiously picked up the bundle and almost dropped it again, stunned by how soft it was. It was a brilliant blue, brighter than anything he could recall. It made him hesitate to pull it on, but as he looked around, he realized with a sigh that his robe was nowhere to be found. He pulled on the vibrant garment, almost uncomfortable with it’s softness against his skin. It fit much like his previous robe, but looser, obviously meant for someone a little larger than him. It was a strange sensation, the cloth whispering as he moved and gaping more than he would like at the neck. He felt ridiculous and exposed, but he would never balk at the generosity shown him. He simply had to accept the strange luxury. Diarmuid realized that his shoes were also gone and frowned, but made his way to the curtain and stepped out.

Muirne, Branna, and the redhead were by the freshly-cleaned basin, sitting on a log and chatting. The mute was not far from them, half listening with Radha as the girls described something. When Diarmuid stepped out, they went silent.

“Oh, my,” Branna purred, her voice husky.

“Normally I’d smack Branna but I have to agree with her on this,” Muirne said, looking him over. “Blue is definitely your color.”

“I like the black better,” the redhead sniffed, picking at her nails.

Diarmuid flushed darkly, looking at Radha a bit helplessly. “It's far too big, but it will do you for now,” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Come. You can both sleep by my fire.”

“I wonder what he’d look like in leather,” Branna mused, rising with the others and walking toward Diarmuid.

“Nothing you would be able to handle, Branna,” the redhead said. “Keep it in your skirt; I want to get some sleep tonight.”

“You’re no fun,” Branna pouted. The two walked past him into the hut, presumably to clean up. Branna glanced back at him with a wicked grin but didn’t hesitated. Muirne followed after, giving Diarmuid a cheeky wink.

“May the spirits preserve us from hormonal youths,” Radha sighed. She gestured for the men to follow her, which Diarmuid did so gladly. The mute smiled at him in amusement.


	8. Chapter 8

Diarmuid slowly stirred to the strange sound of high-pitched giggling. He blinked slowly, a bit groggy from the deep sleep that had enveloped him. When he gained his bearings and looked to the sound, he couldn’t help but smile in delight.

He was laying on bedding beside a smoldering fire, the late morning sun lighting the camp around him as people went about their business. On the other side of the fire, a small distance away, the mute played with two children with a strange expression on his face, somewhere between adoring and terrified. The boy and girl clung to his forearms with both hands and squealed and giggled with delight as he flexed his arms to easily lift them off the ground.

Diarmuid smiled and stretched, mindful of his damaged ribs and enjoying the pull on his muscles and the way the cloth of the robe slid over his skin. He did not usually sleep so late, but he had not slept much or well the past few days. He rolled over and yelped, scrambling upright to see Branna watching him as she dragged a lock of hair slowly over her lips.

“The color is ever more brilliant in the light of day,” she murmured.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his heart pounding. It was perhaps rude, and sleeping was not such a private thing that it should disturb him, but her proximity and the way she watched him made him feel very self-conscious.

“Awaiting Muirne,” she replied, unconcerned by his question or discomfort. “She is mending and cleaning your shoes. Then she and I will go hunting while you gather herbs for Radha.”

Diarmuid glanced around, usure when they would continue on their journey. However, they had nowhere to go just yet and this clan had been kind to them. They could stay awhile and help where needed.

He felt movement beside him and looked back to see Branna moving to sit on the ground next to him, her thigh brushing his.

“Diarmuid,” she said as her eyes traced his face, “Radha told us that you are a monk, that your practice is in drudgery and to forsake more earthly delights in your service to God. Is this true?”

Diarmuid was a little surprised by her question. He had considered her oblivious to more spiritual matters because of her open admiration and flirtatious nature. “That is a succinct summary.”

“So you’ve never been kissed?” She seemed more surprised than flirtatious. Bemused, he shook his head. “But, do you not want to be kissed?”

“I have vowed to forsake such things.” Or at least he would have when he became a full monk.

“But do you want to be kissed? To know what it's like?”

Diarmuid probably would have excused himself and run from this line of questioning if she hadn’t looked and sounded so baffled. It was kind of endearing, that she might not comprehend this choice. “I have not given it a lot of thought. It hasn’t been an option. Besides Muirne, you are the only other girl my age that I’ve met.”

“Well, that makes sense, I suppose; remove the temptation. But what about boys?”

He blinked, surprised. “I don’t understand.”

“Have you never met a boy your age? Or older: there is something wonderful about learning from an experienced teacher. Take your companion, for example. All alone and all that experience.” She sighed almost dreamily.

Diarmuid looked over at the mute. He stilled played with the children, but there was a strain at the corner of his mouth. He glanced at them and the novice suddenly suspected that he could hear them. He looked away, frowning at Branna. “I had not considered it. I suppose it is possible.”

“Possible?” she asked, puzzled.

“To kiss another man.”

She stared at him, the giggling and flirtatious girl suddenly gone. “Muirne said you had escaped Daithi’s camp.”

“Yes?”

She frowned. “Diarmuid, do you understand what that man is? What he wanted to do to you?”

He wanted to squirm under her intense regard. “He cut open my robe.”

“And then?” When he remained silent, she pushed on. “Did he touch you?”

“Why are you asking me this? You don’t know what he was going to do.”

“I do, Diarmuid. You are not the first.” She stood, practically knocking Muirne down as she almost ran into Radha’s hut.

“What was that about?” Muirne asked, holding Diarmuid’s shoes.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered, frowning with concern. “She asked me about kissing then suddenly became agitated, talking about Daithi.”

Muirne sharply looked at him. “What about Daithi?”

Diarmuid’s frown deepened. “Did he hurt her?”

“He only like boys, Diarmuid,” she replied softly.

Before he could figure out how to respond, Branna and Radha exited the hut and walked toward them.

“Muirne, Branna, make sure Ailis and Cormac are back to their mother, then go on your hunt,“ Radha instructed as she walked up to Diarmuid. Branna took Muirne’s hand, easing the shoes out of the girl’s grasp and handing them to the monk. They then took the hands of the children the mute had been playing with and led them away.

“Hound,” Radha said, sitting on a log next to Diarmuid. She gestured the mute over and he silently obeyed. “You heard?” He nodded. “How much does he know?”

The man glanced at Diarmuid almost apologetically, then looked at Radha. He spread his hands wide and shrugged a bit helplessly.

“I see.” She looked at Diarmuid then, gaze firm. “I need you to answer me truthfully and shamelessly, dove. Will you do that?”

He really didn’t want to agree without knowing more, but a lifetime of obedience and her kind concern had him nodding. “Yes, Radha.”

“How much do you know about sex?”

Diarmuid blushed furiously. For a moment, his mouth moved but no words came out. He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak carefully. “I know the mechanics behind how children are conceived,” he finally answered. He tried not to look at the mute sitting there.

Radha nodded. “What about between those of the same gender?”

Diarmuid blinked. “I don’t understand. Is that possible?”

Radha sighed and looked at the mute. “If you are going to have him out in the world, he needs to know this.”

The man nodded slowly, but Diarmuid was not having it. “Why?” he asked. “I have no intention of… well, participating.”

“Daithi is a rapist, Diarmuid,” she said firmly, eyes on his face. “His preferred victims are young, pretty men, even better if they are virgins. He was going to rape you. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Diarmuid blanched. He hadn’t thought too closely about it, but it made sense. If he could have been so close and not understood, then he could be tricked or worse. He swallowed around the tightness in his throat but nodded. “Yes, Radha,” he said softly. “I understand.”

“Would you allow me to explain?” she asked. He nodded obediently.

~~~

Diarmuid stared at her in horror. The two of them had moved into her hut and she had gently but frankly explained various way to have sex with any gender. She has just finished with anal, knowing that would be the one that disturbed him the most. It usually did disturb the youths when it was described to them.

“And there are... people find pleasure in that?”

“Oh my, yes,” she murmured. “Both genders, but there is that added bonus for men. Of course, it must be done right.”

His head felt overly full of information. It could not compare with the events of the past days of course, but it was shocking all the same. Procreation had been described to him in a perfunctory way, as a means to explain his aging body’s actions, but he had always been taught to resist the temptations of pleasure and not to touch. Just how much and in what ways pleasure could be chased was not explained and it made him wiser to know, but Diarmuid also couldn’t help the twinge of curiosity either. Keeping the information from him had likely been considered an act of kindness by the monks.

“Daithi…”

“He is known to us because he has preyed upon our clan before,” Radha explained. “He won’t touch the girls, but he won’t stop his clan from it. He actively hunts the boys.”

“And Branna?”

She smiled sadly. “Twins run in her family. Ailis and Cormac are her siblings. Her twin was Eamon.”

Diarmuid frowned, hoping this story did not lead where he was thinking. Radha nodded, dissolving his hope.

“Eamon was not the same once Daithi finished with him. The life had been snuffed out of him. He hung himself, trying to do so far away so Branna would not see, but she knew. She found him.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, confused. “How can she be so inviting of something that destroyed her twin?”

“It is not the same thing,” Radha said firmly. “The actions may be similar, but the intentions are radically different. Sex is beautiful, ecstatic, and consensual. Rape is a violation, a means of controlling someone.”

There was some excited yelling off in the camp, nothing that sounded pleasant. The two frowned at each other then quickly left the hut. Diarmuid was surprised to see how much time had passed.

Branna and Muirne were walking through the camp with a man Diarmuid immediately recognized. It was the spear-bearer that had bound him and brought him to Daithi. Muirne had a dagger to his throat, Branna a spear, but her weapon was not at the ready. Her face was frighteningly cold.

The man grinned when he saw Diarmuid, even as he was pushed to his knees before Radha. “Blue suits you.”

“Kill him,” Radha snapped.

“Wait,” Diarmuid said, surprising everyone. He was looking the other man over suspiciously. “You were not happy to take me to Daithi before. I can’t imagine that all of his clan approved of his activities. So why are you pleased to see me now?”

“Because while Daithi plays with you, we’ll be ready this time to deal with him.” The man jutted his chin toward the mute. “Can’t pass up a hunt like that.”

“You seem sure that Daithi will get his hands on either of them,” Radha said.

“I’m here to offer a trade,” the man replied. “You give us the witch and his pet, and we will return your little blackbirds.”

Everyone blinked. Most of the clan looked around at each other, hearts in their throats to see if anyone was missing. Diarmuid looked to the mute, who was already growling, and a sick suspicion settled in his stomach. There was only one way the mute could know who was taken.

Diarmuid’s head whipped around. “The twins. Where are they?”

Branna blanched. “Ailis! Cormac!” She ran off, but two steps in there was a loud wail. A woman who looked strikingly similar to Branna stumbled out of one of the huts. Branna caught her as she screamed again, sobbing.

Diarmuid suddenly felt strangely calm. He could see what was going to happen and had no fear of it, as if the coming trauma was a distant thing. He stepped forward slowly, easing the dagger from Muirne’s hand before she was tempted to kill the messenger. He looked at the man. “What does he want?”

“It is as I said. You and your pet are to come with me. Once you are there, we will release the children.”

“Two must come with us,” Diarmuid corrected. “The children need someone each to take them home.”

“No.”

“They might die, and that would not be holding your end of the bargain.” His tone was calm and reasonable, a lifetime of training taking over. “Let us bring the girls, you know their sister would see them home safely with no other motive.” He looked to Radha, who nodded.

“Why are we listening to him?” A man stepped forward, the one with the scar over his eye. “He could be working with Daithi.”

“For what?” Muirne asked. “It he was with Daithi, there would be no need for the twins. Also, why have us go? Why not you, a strapping man? Diarmuid is obviously trying to minimize our danger.”

“They are not our prisoners,” Radha interrupted. “They are welcome to come and go as they please.” She looked at the pair if them, tone softening. “I will not stop you from doing this. Please, see our children brought home.”

Diarmuid looked to the mute, but the other man was grim and determined, obviously having made his peace with what might happen. Diarmuid didn't want to think about it what would happen, but he also didn’t hesitate. He would happily give up his life for the survival of the children. It wasn’t even a question.

In a very short time they were on their way, following the spear-bearer with Branna and Muirne trailing behind.

The atmosphere was tense as they walked. Diarmuid was a strange twist of calm with panic clawing at the back of his throat. He focused on getting there, on seeing the twins safe. He had to focus on that, because if he considered too much what might happen once they get there, he was afraid his legs might give out. He’d faced worse than this. He could endure whatever would meet him. He worried about the mute, however. The clan had at least some idea of what he was and the fact they wanted him as well made him worry for his friend.

It was full dark before they returned to the encampment. There had been shouts from the watch, so everyone was ready to meet them. Daithi stood, two clan members holding the terrified children still. When they saw her, the twins cried for Branna. She remained still, hands empty of weapons.

“Wy are they here?” Daithi asked, looking at the women with disdain.

“They are here to see the children safely home,” Diarmuid answered before their guide could. “Release the twins, and they will all leave.”

“Not yet,” Daithi replied. His eyes raked Diarmuid, but then looked to his companion. “First, we have something to ensure your pet’s compliance.” He held out a cup.

The mute started to step forward but the novice held out a hand, stilling him. “What is that?”

“A drug,” Daithi replied calmly. “Nothing that should hurt him, but will keep him sleepy and calm. We will not damage what is yours as long as you behave.”

Diarmuid did not believe him and hesitated, but the mute stepped around his hand, moved by the whimpering children. He took the cup and downed the drug. Daithi gestured for him to step aside.

“Now you,” the chieftain said to Diarmuid, motioning him forward.

“Let the children go,” the monk said firmly.

Daithi narrowed his eyes, but a moment later, the girl was released and running into Branna’s arms. The boy was held fast. “I won’t ask again, little one.”

He started forward but was caught on the arm by Branna. “Diarmuid,” she said softly, desperate to save both him and her brother. He gently pulled her hand from him.

“Just make sure they are safe. That’s what is important.” He stepped forward again, moving to stand before Daithi. To his surprise, the man offered him a cup as well.

“Just to make sure you don’t run,” he said with a dark grin.

Diarmuid refused to look at anyone as he drank the bitter liquid. It was mostly water, highly diluted, so it would likely only make him woozy. As he handed the cup back, the boy was released and he ran to Muirne. The girls picked their charges up and left into the trees.


	9. Chapter 9

Swiftly, the mute was bound, unable to move. More of the drug was forced down his throat and Diarmuid protested.

“We are cooperating. There is no need for violence.”

“That is hardly violent, little one,” Daithi said. He grabbed Diarmuid’s arm and started dragging him off. He was a little surprised that the world spun about him, making it more difficult to keep to his feet. He was pushed into a hut and stumbled, tripping over the too-large robe and falling to his knees. He tried to stand again, but a hand in his hair kept him down. His head was forced back so that Daithi could study him.

“You surprised us before with your creature,” he murmured. “Some of my clan want to burn you, but you have no other protection, do you little witch?”

They could not truly believe that the mute was under some kind of magic or compulsion? He had no power over the other man. He opened his mouth to reply, but a finger stilled his lips.

“Do not speak,” the chieftain murmured. “Speak, and I will cut out your tongue.”

Diarmuid swallowed in fear. He could feel his body trembling, trapped and vulnerable. His lesson earlier that day with Radha lingered in the back of his head. He did not want this man to touch him.

He remained obedient and silent as Daithi watched him, his expression a practiced mask. Daithi slowly began to stroke fingers through Diarmuid’s dark curls.

“So pale,” the chieftain murmured, running a thumb over one cheekbone, almost brushing his lashes. “Like milk or clear moonlight.” He moved to his knees before Diarmuid, cupping the younger man’s face. “What did you offer for your power, little one? What price did you pay?”

Diarmuid remained silent as anxiety roiled his stomach. He had trouble comprehending the superstitious story the chieftain was weaving.

“Are you truly untouched, like the monk you present yourself to be?” The hand moved, thumb stroking over the hollow of his throat. “Or did you lay yourself out at the crossroads for your enchantments? Has the beast had you? Is that how you bewitched him?”

Diarmuid fought hard to keep his growing terror from showing. He could feel wetness gather at the corners of his eyes, but he willed it back. It was strange, the line of questioning. It reminded him of how Ciarán had helplessly conversed with the Lord de Merville before the man tortured him and ripped his guts out.

Suddenly, Daithi grabbed the wide neck of the robe and tore it open. Diarmuid jumped, surprised by the violent motion. When it was released, the torn garment pooled on the floor at his knees. He nearly pushed away, suddenly exposed and cold. The wrap protecting his mending rib was the only thing that remained to cover him.

The chieftain’s hand drifted down to touch the cloth. “Which side is the break?” he murmured. He spread his fingers whide over the lower part of Diarmuid’s left side and squeezed. Pain lanced through the younger man and he was unable to contain the gasp, shrinking back and trying to pull away. Daithi squeezed again, harder, and he let out a choked cry. “Don’t pull away from me,” he warned, voice a low growl.

Diarmuid panted in pain, his eyes glazed and his waist on fire. He was surprised to find his hands on the older man’s shoulders, steadying himself. Daithi began to unwrap the cloth, eyes glimmering as if Diarmuid was a present.

The monk considered his options for a moment and quickly realized that he didn’t have any. Even if he could get away, he would never leave the mute and he couldn’t carry the drugged and larger man. Diarmuid flinched slightly as fingers stroked the bare bruises but tried to contain himself. He had to remind himself why he did this. It eased him a little to remember that the children were safe.

He stared off at the walls of the hut as the hands on him began to stray from his waist, stroking over his hips and thighs and farther back. He bit the inside of his cheek, expression impassive as the older man buried his face into his neck, sucking on the pale skin. Fingers delved against him where Radha said that they would, and he trembled with the effort not to jerk away.

He wanted to fight. He wanted to lash out, to do anything he could do to get those hands off of him. But there was no point. He could not fight a warrior off, and even if he could, there was a whole camp to deal with.

The mouth on his neck released its sore pressure. He was shoved down onto his stomach, wincing at the sharp ache in his rib. Daithi forced one of his knees up underneath him. “Hold that,” the man murmured harshly in his ear, “or I will bind your knee to your arm.”

Diarmuid closed his eyes and swallowed down his nausea, obediently holding the degrading pose. The world turned dizzyingly behind his eyes. Not for the first time in this nightmare-like week, he wanted badly to go home. He opened his eyes again, forcing himself to stay calm. He couldn’t control the tremors in his limbs, no matter how he wished he could.

Something slick slid across his skin, back between his buttocks. He jerked in surprise, fingers tangling into the fur under him. Then the finger pressed firmly, sliding inside.

Diarmuid launched away, trying to evade the foreign burning sensation. Daithi obviously anticipated this, as one hand was suddenly on his ribs again, squeezing. Diarmuid collapsed onto the fur, groaning in pain. He couldn’t help but writhe, instinctively trying to escape his torment.

“I said be still,” he chieftain snarled. He squeezed again as he moved the finger inside the monk, sliding it in and out.

Diarmuid whimpered, nausea burning his throat. His fingers dug into the furs, trying to be still, afraid the man might break the cracked rib.

The finger pulled out, only to re enter with a second one. A strange sound crawled from Diarmuid’s throat as his eyes squeezed closed. Everything seemed so distant except for the hot points of pain.

Suddenly, the fingers were gone and Diarmuid was jerked back up to his knees. Daithi pressed against his back, one arm wrapped around Diarmuid’s chest. He felt the cold press of metal against his neck and wondered what was happening, but the world still spun around him, the pain making him feel hot and woozy.

“I will kill him,” the chieftain snarled, a strange desperation in his tone.

Diarmuid heard nothing, certainly not another voice. He wanted to open his eyes but he was afraid he would be sick if he did.

There was a sudden loud crack in his ear, something hot splattering against the side of his face. Daithi’s arms dragged him as the man fell backward.

“No!” he heard a cry. A moment later, small hands touched first his throat where the weapon had been, then his face to wipe away the thick liquid there.

On his back, Diarmuid didn’t feel so unsteady. Daithi was an unmoving presence behind him. He slowly opened his eyes, then blinked, surprised by what he saw.

“Diarmuid,” she said with worry, softly stroking his hair.

“Muirne?” He tried looking around, extremely confused, but everything swum slightly. The fur at the mouth of the hut was swept aside and Branna stood there, her sling in one hand as she looked in, face filled with horror.

“He is unharmed,” Muirne said quickly. Relief flooded Branna’s face. “Go find the Hound.”

As Branna left, Muirne stroked his face one more before slowly helping him upright. “Are you hurt?” Her fingertips danced over the large bruise on his torso.

Diarmuid touched his face, then looked at his fingertips to see blood. He looked back behind him. Daithi was sprawled out, his eyes blankly staring and his forehead caved in and bloody. Branna must have somehow killed him with a rock as so many others were killed back at the Hollows.

“Diarmuid?”

He looked back at Muirne, blinking slowly.

The girl cupped his face in her hands, her touch delicate. “Are you injured, Diarmuid?”

He carefully considered her question, mind swimming as the world around him seemed unreal. His rib ached and the burn further down lingered but was mostly gone. He didn’t think anything was lasting. “No,” he said finally, blinking as he tried to comprehend the crystalline world around him. “But I think I’m still drugged.”

“Probably some shock as well.” She gathered the torn robe, offering it to him. “I can find you something else to wear, if you’d like.”

He studied the robe but pulled it on, sad that it had been torn. As long as he was careful, it should stay. He didn’t know if he wanted to wear common clothes just then.

“Why are you here?” he asked, finally catching up.

“To rescue you, of course,” she answered, surprised. “You didn’t think we would leave you after you sacrificed yourself for our clan? Branna's mother met us at the border and we returned with help as fast as we could.”

“Surely you didn’t fight the entire clan.”

“We didn’t have to. As you said before, not everyone approved of Daithi’s appetites. Let’s see if you can stand.”

With Muirne’s help, Diarmuid made it to his feet and out of the hut. The dead littered the ground here and there, but there appeared to be fewer casualties than he’d expected. Most of the clan sat watching, not interferring. Off to the side, a few men were sliding the shafts of their spears through the mute’s bindings. His companion was unconscious, head lolling as they hoisted him the rope on his legs and arms. Branna was overseeing, but upon seeing Diarmuid, she hurried over.

“Let me explain,” she said quickly.

“There is no need,” Diarmuid replied, his voice almost dreamy as he watched with an incurious gaze. “If he wakes up, he will still be drugged, and its best for all if he remains bound, lest he forgets himself.” He never wanted to be on the receiving end of the mute’s wrath again.

“Well… yes.” She reached up and was a little concerned that Diarmuid seemed unfazed by her touch. “Are you well? Did… did he--”

“I will be,” he interrupted calmly. He didn’t want to hear her worry if they had arrived in time. They had and he didn’t want to think further on it. The drug was making that easy. Now that he was safe, he felt like he was drifting. “Are we ready to leave? I’d like for him to be safe when he wakes up.”

Branna nodded and went back to the mute. Muirne walked to one of the men in the camp. Before she cold say anything, he jerked his head.

“Take the witch and his beast and begone. We want no further trouble with your clan.”

Diarmuid glanced out of the corner of his eye at being called a witch but he didn’t respond, following placidly as they started off. He kept hold of the robe and watched where he stepped, walking beside the unconscious form of the mute. He remained silent during the journey back, letting the drug ease his mind away from what happened.

Radha was there when they arrived, immediately seeking out the pair. When the clan heard that the mute was merely unconscious and not dead, they cheered. Diarmuid wasn’t quite sure how he felt about eyes watching him, knowing what almost happened to him. Just then, he needed to focus on his friend, to keep him safe. When Radha appeared by his side, he spoke up before she could.

“We need a safe place to secure him until he awakens.”

“There is a supply hut. He can rest there.” When Diarmuid tried to follow, she caught his arm. “He is safe. You come with me. Your robe is finished.”

Diarmuid hesitated but obeyed the hold on his wrist. He was guided back to her hut where a pile of black cloth awaited him. Gently, she removed the torn robe, a little concerned when he let her without protest. She noted the bruises on his neck, but he didn’t favor anything as he moved, not limping or showing signs of further ravishment. She re-wrapped his chest then left him with the robes.

Diarmuid knew he was acting strange, but he was having trouble caring just then. He remembered being told that people sometimes went into shock after a trauma, numb to their pain. He pulled on the robe, not wanting to think as he noted how good it felt to be back in familiar clothing. He blinked at another bundle of black and lifted it. There was a cord for his waist, and a scapular. He slowly pulled it on,his hands trembling. He felt more secure than he had in days with the cloth protecting his throat. He shivered suddenly, the tremor so hard that he sat down.

What had he done? What had he allowed to be done to him? Should he have fought harder? He had barely struggled at all. He had made the children safe, but had done nothing for himself, his vows, or his friend. He lifted his face, looking to the roof and wishing he could see sky. He keened, a broken creature crying in the darkness, feeling smaller than ever since leaving the monastery. He closed his throat around the sound, swallowing it down just moments before Radha came in, worried.

“Dove?” she asked, sitting beside him.

“I don’t know how much more I can endure,” he confessed, his eyes still locked on the ceiling.

“It is already far more than you should,” she agreed. “Have you counted your blessings?”

“Suh as?” The pain in his voice was foreign to his ears.

“You are not alone.”

He looked down at that. He knew she meant the mute and she was right: the man should have died on that beach. Was it a blessing that kept him alive? He didn’t know, but it felt like one to him. He would have long died without the man, even if only from loneliness.

Then there was this clan. They had been so kind, keeping them both safe, caring for them, fighting for them. Diarmuid would never presume to be of the clan, but he was grateful for their friendship.

“Thank you,” he said softly to her. “You have all been so kind.”

She brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead. “Try to get some sleep, dove. You will need your strength for when your companion awakens.”


	10. Chapter 10

Diarmuid was dragged from the darkness by his name, although the voice was as yet unfamiliar. He opened his eyes as hands framed his face and blinked as he groggily recognized Muirne.

“He’s awake,” she said to someone. She turned back to him. “Please, you must come.”

The mute. Diarmuid was suddenly very awake. He dragged himself from his bedding by the fire toward the supply hut. A few warriors had spears at the ready, but didn’t look like they wanted to use them. In front of the hut, Branna was wrapped in the mute’s arms, his face buried against her belly as he knelt before her. She looked worried.

Diarmuid slowly stepped forward, not wanting to startle the mute. “You remember our friends?”

The mute’s head jerked and he looked at Diarmuid, his eyes a solid gold. Suddenly, Branna was free and those arms were around him, pulling him into the hut. Diarmuid was honestly relieve, not wanting anyone to be hurt. He gestured behind his back for the others to stay back. Once inside, the mute turned back to him and pulled the younger man tighter against him, burying his face in the pale throat. It kind of reminded him of the way Daithi had enjoyed his neck. It should have felt dangerous to let the wolf against his vulnerable throat, but he honestly felt safe. Hands slid up under the scapular and removed it. The wolf went to lean in again but paused at the sight of the bruises.

“It’s okay--” Diarmuid was interrupted by the wolf leaning in and nipping at his neck. He started, more surprised than in pain. He was pulled tight, the older man worrying at his throat. The first lick made him blush, the hot wetness somewhat disconcerting. He squirmed a little but didn't try to stop it. It was better to let the mute assure himself that Diarmuid was safe.

Hands moved again to his clothing, pulling at the robe. Diarmuid caught them, stopping the motion and the wolf whined almost pitifully. He dropped to his knees, burying his face into Diarmuid’s stomach. He rubbed his cheeks there as if to scent mark him, hands sliding under the robe to gently stroke his calves.

Diarmuid felt a strange warmth in his belly as he carded his fingers through dark hair. He was unsure what the wolf wanted and wished he would be answered if he asked. 

“Please.” The whisper surprised him. “Please let me see.” The wolf seemed distressed, anxious, and it broke Diarmuid's heart. He was familiar with the desperate desire to see his loved ones safe.

Diarmuid nodded, uncomfortable but he wanted to reassure his friend. It was disconcerting how often he had been naked before others in the past two days. “Okay.”

The wolf looked up at him, surprised, but he barely hesitated before he gently rose and stripped the robe from him. Diarmuid didn’t look at him, eyes on the wall, feeling both ashamed and strangely warm. The bandage was unwrapped deftly, even his shoes removed, until Diarmuid was completely bare. Then the wolf searched him, lingering over any marks and smelling his skin. It made the young man shiver, although surely it was just the cold. It was when the wolf’s nose was against his hip that the creature stiffened. A low growl trickled from his throat and, before Diarmuid knew, his fingers were there, touching him, feeling what oil remained from Daithi’s assault.

Diarmuid tried to jerk away again, panic flaring suddenly at the visceral memory of pain and violation, but the wolf held him, the growl increasing to a snarl. He whimpered, a shudder racking his frame. He tried to breathe calmly as the wolf touched his skin, though the fingers had moved to somewhere less indecent.

Hands cupped his face and pressed their foreheads together, soothing his shivering fear. “I’m alright,” he said softly, trying to reassure.

The wolf looked at him, silent for a long moment, those golden eyes unnerving so close to his. He leaned down and licked Diarmuid’s neck again. Then, over the bruises, he bit down hard.

Diarmuid cried out, knees quaking in pain. For one wild moment, he thought the wolf was going to rip his throat out. He tried to jerk away but the arms around him tightened, harder than stone. He couldn’t get away, but the teeth quickly eased and the wolf’s tongue returned to its tender licking. The creature sighed and he sank to the ground, pulling Diarmuid down with him. He manueverd the youth onto his lap, nuzzling him.

He didn't know what to do or say. His neck thronged, nd he didn't know why he had been bitten. He was too tired to understand, floundering when he desperately wanted a rock to hold on to. “May I please get dressed?” Diarmuid asked softly.

Fingers traced gently over one of his thighs, stroking the delicate inner skin soothingly. The wolf laved his nevk once more then eased his grasp, letting Diarmuid pull away. He quickly pulled on his robe and scapular, then let himself be pulled back, the wolf curling up behind him and burying his nose in his hair.

~~~

Diarmuid awoke to a hand carefully squeezing his limbs. He jerked in surprise and turned to see the mute looking at him with dark eyes. The man hesitated, but gently squeezed again. Diarmuid realized he was looking for injuries. He must not remember the wolf’s actions from last night.

“I am unharmed,” the novice said, trying to ease his friend. “My ribs ache; I haven’t had much success in keeping them wrapped.”

When Diarmuid tried to rise, the mute put a hand on his hip, keeping him down. The younger man looked at him askance, and he slid the hand to Diarmuid’s stomach.

“Unharmed, but untouched?” the mute murmured softly, obviously concerned if he would speak so close to others.

Diarmuid hesitated. He didn’t want to explain what had happened, but the mute deserved it more than anyone. “Not… not entirely,” he admitted. “But we were rescued before he could…” He didn't know how to talk about it and didn’t want to.

The mute was silent a moment. “Is he dead?”

He nodded. “Branna killed him.”

His friend nodded slowly then released him. He sat up and looked around, a bit puzzled.

“We’re in a storage hut back in Radha’s camp,” Diarmuid explained, also rising. “They came back for us once the twins were safe. You were heavily drugged. Once you awoke, your eyes were golden and you were acting strange. I think the wolf was in control?” He grabbed his shoes and bent to put them on. “It seemed alarmed and was most calm when I was there.”

The mute caught his scapular, causing him to look up. He was urged to stand, then the side of his neck was bared, revealing the bruises and bite mark. Calloused fingers trembled as the traced the tender bite.

“Daithi made the bruises,” Diarmuid said without being asked. “The bite was the wolf. I don't know why.”

The fingers stilled. The tension was enough that the monk looked up, wondering what was wrong. He’d learned to read his friend’s face after so much time and what he saw there was understanding, but something else he’d never seen.

“Will you tell me?” he asked softly

Radha came into the hut, sparing the mute the need to explain. Before the older woman could say anything, the mute gestured her over and showed her Diarmuid’s neck.

She hummed in interest as she studied the impression of teeth and the bruises. “I would not have thought you so possessive,” she murmured.

The mute backed away, as if denying it.

“The creature is you, reduced to base needs and feeling. Someone marks what is yours, you mark it again to protect it. Although,” an ran a thumb gently over the bite, “I suppose it could be the wolf's attempt to undo the damage?” She adjusted the scapular, smiling at Diarmuid as if unaware of the tension between the two men. “It did not break the skin, although it will be some time before it fades. Now, it is time for breakfast. Won’t you come out so that the clan may thank you properly?”

“There is no need to thank us,” Diarmuid replied quickly, but she tsked, hushing him.

“Of course there is. You made a great sacrifice for us. We don’t know how you suffered, and don’t think I’m not aware that you are refusing to speak of it. You keep your pain until you are ready to release it. Regardless, you did this for us with no thought to your own safety. That is very deserving of gratitude. You too,” she said pointedly to the mute. “We will expect you soon.” She turned and stepped outside.

Diarmuid watched after her, taking in her words. He met the mute’s eye and an unspoken agreement moved between them. The monk exited first, blinking in surprise at the gathering of people. Many hailed him then the mute as the other man followed him out. The twins ran forward, hugging them both before begging to be lifted again by the mute. Diarmuid smiled fondly then walked toward the fire.

“Diarmuid!”

He turned in time to catch Branna’s full weight as the girl jumped on him, arms around his neck and legs around his waist. He had just long enough to steady them before her mouth was on his, his face bracketed by her dark hair. He was certainly startled, not knowing what to do as he held her up. Her tongue slid into his mouth, stroking against his once before she pulled away.

“Thank you,” she breathed. She tied something into his hair before she pushed away.

Muirne was not far, pouting even as she scolded Branna for jumping him. “I saw him first.”

“So go kiss him, then,” Branna laughed.

Muirne rolled her eyes, slipping over to Diarmuid. He braced himself warily, still a bit stunned and not ready yet to process the warm little curl in his belly.

“Relax, Holy One,” she murmured. “I can be decorous, unlike some. I’ll only kiss you when you ask.” She winked and reached up, also weaving something into his hair.

When she stepped away, Branna’s mother was there. She laid a wreath of ivy generously peppered with shamrocks around his neck. Then she cupped his face in her hands and leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. He saw the tears wetting her lashes and felt her shaking breath against his face, then she released him.

Finally, Radha was there. She smiled warmly at him.

“Is this the gratitude you meant?” he asked somewhat nervously.

“You sacrificed for us something that you, a holy monk of God, had vowed to preserve. We honor this sacrifice so that God and all spirits see what you have done for us, and forgive your beautiful soul any transgression.” She reached up, adding a third charm to his hair.

Diarmuid swallowed around a lump in his throat. “We cannot stay.”

“I know,” she said simply as she met his eyes. “Your hearts must heal and your spirits roam. When you are ready, know that we will be here. You are welcome in our clan, and will be one of our own. Both of you.” She turned to the mute and reached for his hair, adding a small stone bead to the leather band and raven feather already there. “Now, let us eat and after, we will see you on your way.” She took their hands and guided them to the fire.


	11. Chapter 11

That evening, Diarmuid laid by the fire on his bedding, looking up at the stars. The mute was not far, possibly asleep already. They had been given provisions to see them on their journey and were sent off by the entire clan. Muirne and Branna had taken them to the road that they were now camped near. They had no goal in mind; they just knew that they couldn’t yet stay. It was the seventh day since leaving the monastery and Diarmuid had no idea what he felt.

He rolled over, gazing at the dwindling fire. There had been so much death. He had seen men carved to pieces, watched the gutting of one of his beloved brothers, and witnessed what an innocent rock could do in skilled hands. He watched a man’s last breath escape as bubbles in the uncaring sea and heard the crack of bones as a skull was caved in. The body was fragile, and men had so many terrible ways to mutilate it. Yet, of all of it nothing was more fragile than the heart.

He rolled over again, turning away from the heat. His body was hale; it was his heart that was wounded. So much suffering had happened, and for what? Greed? Domination? It made his stomach roil, the way men sought the means to crush the will of others beneath their boots. He wanted to cringe as he remembered Raymond de Merville and how he’d fabricated a reason for Diarmuid to be awake, seeing spies in every shadow. The memory of Brother Geraldus’ scowl when he demanded obedience and the bright zealotry in his eyes when he talked about God crushing the faithless made his throat tighten as if his hand was still there, choking him. Daithi and his need to dominate, how he touched Diarmuid, how his hands… he couldn’t think about it, his skin coming alive and crawling.

Diarmuid moved to look back up at the stars. A hand touched his arm and he glanced over. The mute was awake, dark eyes reflecting the firelight. Diarmuid favored him with a faint smile and sighed. He must not forget the wondrous things as well. The trial with the relic had held many miracles, not the least of which was his own survival and that of the mute’s. He had met the girls, sure they would always be his favorites, and seen children. They had a home if they ever wanted it, which was more than they’d had before. Then there was the wolf. He had not known such magic could even exist. It was hard to know if it was good or evil. Diarmuid still wasn’t sure of the answer, but he believed in the mute and would do anything to show God and the man himself that he was deserving of the glory of salvation.

Diarmuid reached down and simply touched two fingertips to the mute’s hand. The man returned his small smile, then they both slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on transcribing the second story. I hope to start posting it in a couple of days. Thanks!!


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